The Raven’s Perch online journal published four of my poems yesterday
Spring Coming in Maine
Sun screams its bright. Rises up straight
despite clouds,
reflects brazen
on snow.
Not the bold of bright tulips
the pale of daffodil— or any color, really
but imagination
fueled by intense light.
One clear blue patch peeks
through overcast skies
and, in an instant,
my eyes remember and invent
the rumor of spring.
Anticipating the '91 Chevy Truck
Is he coming?
The "indestructible 350"
has a familiar rumble.
Triggers me to peer out
windows, take down
steps two at a time.
The truck pulls up the long hill.
I breathe deeply. A week of futile fears
and uneasy sleep disappears
with the dust in the driveway.
Just to see the laugh in his eyes,
touch his bare head, hold those
scratchy curled fingers,
his voice warm and cranky.
The door creaks when it opens
like my favorite song.
Hope in the days of Covid-19
In the pale morning, hope
is a child, willing to try anything.
At the grocery store,
arrowed aisles, sentries,
sanitizer advertise
the danger of getting
too up-close.
Eyes peer over masks—suspicious?
Afraid? Angry?
Hard to tell, but
hope leaks through feeble cloth..
Do this, don't do that
wears patience thin as masks.
Home again, safe enough
alone. Keep busy through
the list of daily do-this, do- that,
Hope slouches in a kitchen chair.
At night, though,
Hope is
nowhere
About 2 a.m. my mood
droops,
drapes itself
over the
bedclothes.
Only get through the dark bits.
I sit up, stretch my neck, remember
dawn comes
easily.
Let the clock play out.
The seconds— each heart beat
the fragment
of a long minute.
The birds begin their babble.
An uneasy light
drifts up.
If I'm lucky I sleep.
If not, she yanks me up
Through
cracks
in morning's
floorboards.
Water Levels
for Karin
We were friends, but different.
I loved her loud laughter as it ripped
raucous down staid hallways. Proper
professionals tried to shush her. Didn't work.
She admired my cooking, the
let's take it on the road headful
of ideas, my penchant for planning.
We both worshiped the water. Once
visited Niagara. Shouldered our way as close
as we could get. Got really wet.
stood gaping
at the spectacle.
Each spring we skipped lunch
to follow the river
from the high pond
the higher falls,
lower falls,
caught wild spray and crashes,
down the
ripple of rapids.
all the way
to the Kennebec River.
Sat on the same rock together
Wind blew our hair,
voices drowned out
Glancing
from falls to rapids,
back and forth,
grinned at each other.
Not even a drizzle now.
She retired to Florida,
I helped her cart
it all off to Goodwill.
The rock is there still.
I hope you will join me in celebrating.
After years of work and lots of rejections, I am pleased to announce the publication of my first poetry chapbook: Not All Are Weeping. My small book of poems will be published by Main Street Rag sometime in the spring or summer of 2023. Here is a link to a short video of me reading a few poems and talking about the book: Listen here
Only another month to get this book at the pre-publication price
Another poem published in The Raven’s Perch online journal this week
bright fruit
After months spent alone each day the same,
what a delight of colors, smells, textures.
Avocados and blood oranges, mounds of lettuces
Bright lemons yellow and brown plantains.
And all this bustle. Strangers amble
up and down aisles, or hurry, disgusted
or excited. Arguing, articulating a point
with grand sweep of arms. Hard to shop
with all the flash and flap
finally slide into checkout.
I’d like to touch the weathered cheeks
of the woman─ eyes downcast─
who pulls into line behind me. A mother,
grandmother, perhaps,
she lives alone. I can tell
by the half dozen items in her cart.
I’ll bet she knows precisely how much money
Is held in that purse she hugs
tightly to her side.
She is thinking if I put back
that fresh orange
there will be enough.
I imagine
a life spent stepping aside
for husband, children, neighbors
pushing her wants away.
As a rock worn by relentless
sea, bit by bit
she recedes.
When I place the plastic divider
onto the conveyer,
a small gesture to allow her groceries,
she lifts eyes to mine and smiles a surprise
the bright of a cut watermelon
a chance to spring
a quiet murmur that begs—
I languish–
just listen.
My rocking chair the site
of delights—- a coffee, warm buttered bread,
sweater and soft slippers, swaddled
in a blanket of rain light.
Things needing to be done. Shush! Here is
a rainy excuse for meandering
among—
some
spent flowers, sweet kisses— heady words.
Serious plans
are for bright days.
After, I wander in secret places, mossy paths,
see tiny violets hidden in grass.
Winding
through fields
I ponder tiny bluet and starflower.
After violent shear of a mower,
punched-flat violet stems spring right back up
I can’t say that
I spring back up anymore
but simply allow the stem
to rise slowly
upright.
Published in The Hopper Magazine, May 2022
The Marriage House
A boy in a red cap rides his bike to the baseball field
flips
upside down
for the girl who has answers to all the questions in chemistry class.
They marry and ride home with a
string of trout caught at Uncle Gus’s pond hanging downside up like flags from the back of the bike to build a house together.
He brings white pine trees, cozies up to a local watering hole,
rides a clever motorized bicycle
(which he pedals furiously when a car goes by).
She contributes a bright green
and bitter lime marmalade,
her grandmother’s silverware
and the sure path to salvation.
They both hammer and nail the thing together
He fusses about construction, she slap
dashes everything, but the upside is
they start building.
His beaten-up stuffed donkey, her London Fog raincoat,
his clam-shaped boat, her Steinway grand persona
his mother’s perfect chicken
her father’s terrifying judgments.
For the downside of lumber they use
his lies,
her violence,
his avoidance, her arrogance. Reload
the secret fears
they vomit up at night
for nails.
The house grows. No one notices
as termites tear their way up
from the worried foundation, casually chew through
coffee cups thrown, decisions smashed
boxed up feelings
in wine glasses and butter dishes
stashed away for future use.
Holes turn into
caverns and unsure floors,
lower levels eaten into
l a c e.
One day walking up the steps
she plunges through rotten cotton batting and dead bugs,
falls
down
into an unexpected
cavity filled
with his steeled feelings and pretend promises.
He finds a place
at the other end of the basement
with her abandoned playthings– desires, plans,
sincerities wrapped up in little boxes with bright paper.
They ask what else is hidden here?
Published in Spank the Carp publication, December 2021
Jean Feldeisen 